kali yuga

the mother of conception
knows what playful interception is.
bliss is what the kiss of death is laced with.
the place with many kali worshipers
is dangerous; the danger is
a mirrored and reflected truth.
when in the booth, the sinful youth sins not
for there are no sins; i forgot
to mention that dimensions that
i speak on tend to weaken when ignored;
they long tremendously to be adored.
i can't afford to swim amid the ocean of ill suffering;
its uttering is cluttering my mind,
and all that i can find's excuses
but no uses for these useless things.
this brings me to ruminate on rumination;
the sensation of no patience for the past
and its demise. the current moment is no lies;
it is a metaphor for ever, but it's never
certain that the curtain's lifted,
for the veil has not yet shifted;
sorrow drifted away but rumination remained;
it stained me and drained me,
but now i welcome kali to destroy me;
annoy me and abort my intuition,
for fruition is initially intentional
but then turns into nothing;
a hard to explain thing,
for no word can bring; condense it all into the now,
and so we use the non-existent past to speak on
its delusion as it deludes us in the now,
in which we are never present.

©LukaKorba